The Wit and Humor of America Volume VI edited by Marshall P Wilder

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Title: The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VI. (of X.)

Author: Various

Editor: Marshall P. Wilder

Release Date: September 18, 2006 [EBook #19324]

Language: English

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Library Edition

THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA

In Ten Volumes

VOL. VI

FINLEY PETER DUNNE (MR. DOOLEY)

THE WIT AND HUMOR OF AMERICA

EDITED BY MARSHALL P. WILDER

Volume VI

Funk & Wagnalls Company

New York and London

Copyright MDCCCCVII, BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY

Copyright MDCCCCXI, THE THWING COMPANY

CONTENTS

PAGE

Abou Ben Butler
John Paul
1167

Advertiser, The
Eugene Field
1101

After the Funeral
James M. Bailey
1146

Apostasy of William Dodge, The
Stanley Waterloo
1084

Ballad of Grizzly Gulch, The
Wallace Irwin
1073

Banty Tim
John Hay
1173

Bear Story, The
James Whitcomb Riley
1047

Book-Canvasser, The
Anonymous
1113

Bully Boat and a Brag Captain, A
Sol Smith
1208

Bumblebeaver, The
Kenyon Cox
1145

Casey at the Bat
Ernest Lawrence Thayer 1148

Chad's Story of the Goose
F. Hopkinson Smith
993

Colonel Carter's Story of the Postmaster
F. Hopkinson Smith
1052

Comic Miseries
John G. Saxe
1121

Coquette, The
John G. Saxe
1127

De Gradual Commence
Wallace Bruce Amsbary 1164

Evening
Oliver Wendell Holmes 1175

Fairport Art Museum, The
Octave Thanet
1062

Famous Mulligan Ball, The
Frank L. Stanton
1103

Genial Idiot Discusses the Music Cure, The John Kendrick Bangs
1105

Grains of Truth
Bill Nye
985

Her Valentine
Richard Hovey
1117

It Pays to be Happy
Tom Masson
1170

James and Reginald
Eugene Field
1171

Jones
Lloyd Osbourne
1007

Latter-Day Warnings
Oliver Wendell Holmes 1168

Lost Chords
Eugene Field
1080

Love Sonnets of an Office Boy
S.E. Kiser
1056

Martyrdom of Mr. Stevens, The
Herbert Quick
1151

Merchant and the Book-Agent, The
Anonymous
1124

Modern Farmer, The
Jack Appleton
1083

Mosquito, The
William Cullen Bryant
1199

Mr. Dooley on the Game of Football
Finley Peter Dunne
1059

My First Cigar
Robert J. Burdette
1204

My Philosofy
James Whitcomb Riley
1076

Octopussycat, The
Kenyon Cox
1112

Old Settler, The
Ed. Mott
1177

Owl-Critic, The
James T. Fields
1196

Paintermine, The
Kenyon Cox
1100

Shonny Schwartz
Charles Follen Adams
1206

Society Upon the Stanislaus, The
Bret Harte
1078

So Wags the World
Anne Warner
1092

Spring Feeling, A
Bliss Carman
1129

Talking Horse, The
John T. McIntyre
1185

Thompson Street Poker Club, The
Henry Guy Carleton
1140

Thoughts fer the Discuraged Farmer
James Whitcomb Riley
1081

"Tiddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-bum! bum!"
Wilbur D. Nesbit
1202

Unconscious Humor
J.K. Wetherell
998

Up and Down Old Brandywine
James Whitcomb Riley
1003

Verre Definite
Wallace Bruce Amsbary 1183

Wasted Opportunities
Roy Farrell Greene
1132

Weddin', The
Jennie Betts Hartswick
1134

Welsh Rabbittern, The
Kenyon Cox
1120

When the Allegash Drive Goes Through
Holman F. Day
1214

Wild Boarder, The
Kenyon Cox
1163

COMPLETE INDEX AT THE END OF VOLUME X.

GRAINS OF TRUTH

BY BILL NYE

A young friend has written to me as follows: "Could you tell me something of the location of the porcelain works in
Sèvres, France, and what the process is of making those beautiful things which come from there? How is the name of
the town pronounced? Can you tell me anything of the history of Mme. Pompadour? Who was the Dauphin? Did you
learn anything of Louis XV whilst in France? What are your literary habits?"

It is with a great, bounding joy that I impart the desired information. Sèvres is a small village just outside of St. Cloud
(pronounced San Cloo). It is given up to the manufacture of porcelain. You go to St. Cloud by rail or river, and then
drive over to Sèvres by diligence or voiture. Some go one way and some go the other. I rode up on the Seine, aboard
of a little, noiseless, low-pressure steamer about the size of a sewing machine. It was called the Silvoo Play, I think.

The fare was thirty centimes—or, say, three cents. After paying my fare and finding that I still had money left, I lunched
at St. Cloud in the open air at a trifling expense. I then took a bottle of milk from my pocket and quenched my thirst.
Traveling through France one finds that the water is especially bad, tasting of the Dauphin at times, and dangerous in the
extreme. I advise those, therefore, who wish to be well whilst doing the Continent, to carry, especially in France, as I
did, a large, thick-set bottle of milk, or kumiss, with which to take the wire edge off one's whistle whilst being yanked
through the Louvre.

St. Cloud is seven miles west of the center of Paris and almost ten miles by rail on the road to Versailles—pronounced
Vairsi. St. Cloud belongs to the canton of Sèvres and the arrondissement of Versailles. An arrondissement is not
anything reprehensible. It is all right. You, yourself, could belong to an arrondissement if you lived in France.

St. Cloud is on the beautiful hill slope, looking down the valley of the Seine, with Paris in the distance. It is peaceful and
quiet and beautiful. Everything is peaceful in Paris when there is no revolution on the carpet. The steam cars run safely
and do not make so much noise as ours do. The steam whistle does not have such a hold on people as it does here.
The adjutant-general at the depot blows a little tin bugle, the admiral of the train returns the salute, the adjutant-general
says "Allons!" and the train starts off like a somewhat leisurely young man who is going to the depot to meet his wife's
mother.

One does not realize what a Fourth of July racket we live in and employ in our business till he has been the guest of a
monarchy of Europe, between whose toes the timothy and clover have sprung up to a great height. And yet it is a
pleasing change, and I shall be glad when we as a republic have passed the blow-hard period, laid aside the ear-
splitting steam whistle, settled down to good, permanent institutions, and taken on the restful, soothful, Boston air which
comes with time and the quiet self-congratulation that one is born in a Bible land and with Gospel privileges, and where
the right to worship in a strictly high-church manner is open to all.

The Palace of St. Cloud was once the residence of Napoleon I in summer-time. He used to go out there for the heated
term, and folding his arms across his stomach, have thought after thought regarding the future of France. Yet he very
likely never had an idea that some day it would be a thrifty republic, engaged in growing green peas, or pulling a soiled
dove out of the Seine, now and then, to add to the attractions of her justly celebrated morgue.

Louis XVIII also put up at the Palace in St. Cloud several summers. He spelled it "palais," which shows that he had
very poor early English advantages, or that he was, as I have always suspected, a native of Quebec. Charles X also
changed the bedding somewhat, and moved in during his reign. He also added a new iron sink and a place in the barn
for washing buggies. Louis Philippe spent his summers here for a number of years, and wrote weekly letters to the Paris

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papers, signed "Uno," in which he urged the taxpayers to show more veneration for their royal nibs. Napoleon III
occupied the palais in summer during his lifetime, availing himself finally of the use of Mr. Bright's justly celebrated
disease and dying at the dawn of better institutions for beautiful but unhappy France.

I visited the palais (pronounced pallay), which was burned by the Prussians in 1870. The grounds occupy 960 acres,
which I offered to buy and fit up, but probably I did not deal with responsible parties. This part of France reminds me
very much of North Carolina. I mean, of course, the natural features. Man has done more for France, it seems to me,
than for the Tar Heel State, and the cities of Asheville and Paris are widely different. The police of Paris rarely get
together in front of the court-house to pitch horseshoes or dwell on the outlook for the goober crop.

And yet the same blue, ozonic sky, if I may be allowed to coin a word, the same soft, restful, dolce frumenti air of
gentle, genial health, and of cark destroying, magnetic balm to the congested soul, the inflamed nerve and the festering
brain, are present in Asheville that one finds in the quiet drives of San Cloo with the successful squirt of the mighty
fountains of Vairsi and the dark and whispering forests of Fon-taine-bloo.

The palais at San Cloo presents a rather dejected appearance since it was burned, and the scorched walls are bare,
save where here and there a warped and wilted water pipe festoons the blackened and blistered wreck of what was
once so grand and so gay.

San Cloo has a normal school for the training of male teachers only. I visited it, but for some cause I did not make a hit
in my address to the pupils until I began to speak in their own national tongue. Then the closest attention was paid to
what I said, and the keenest delight was manifest on every radiant face. The president, who spoke some English, shook
hands with me as we parted, and I asked him how the students took my remarks. He said: "They shall all the time keep
the thinkness—what you shall call the recollect—of monsieur's speech in preserves, so that they shall forget it not
continualle. We shall all the time say we have not witness something like it since the time we come here, and have not so
much enjoy ourselves since the grand assassination by the guillotine. Come next winter and be with us for one week.
Some of us will remain in the hall each time."

At San Cloo I hired of a quiet young fellow about thirty-five years of age, who kept a very neat livery stable there, a
sort of victoria and a big Percheron horse, with fetlock whiskers that reminded me of the Sutherland sisters. As I was in
no hurry I sat on the iron settee in the cool court of the livery stable, and with my arm resting on the shoulder of the
proprietor I spoke of the crops and asked if generally people about there regarded the farmer movement as in any way
threatening to the other two great parties. He did not seem to know, and so I watched the coachman who was to drive
me, as he changed his clothes in order to give me my money's worth in grandeur.

One thing I liked about France was that the people were willing, at a slight advance on the regular price, to treat a very
ordinary man with unusual respect and esteem. This surprised and delighted me beyond measure, and I often told
people there that I did not begrudge the additional expense. The coachman was also hostler, and when the carriage was
ready he altered his attire by removing a coarse, gray shirt or tunic and putting on a long, olive green coachman's coat,
with erect linen collar and cuffs sewed into the collar and sleeves. He wore a high hat that was much better than mine,
as is frequently the case with coachmen and their employers. My coachman now gives me his silk hat when he gets
through with it in the spring and fall, so I am better dressed than I used to be.

But we were going to say a word regarding the porcelain works at Sèvres. It is a modern building and is under
government control. The museum is filled with the most beautiful china dishes and funny business that one could well
imagine. Besides, the pottery ever since its construction has retained its models, and they, of course, are worthy of a
day's study. The "Sèvres blue" is said to be a little bit bluer than anything else in the known world except the man who
starts a nonpareil paper in a pica town.

I was careful not to break any of these vases and things, and thus endeared myself to the foreman of the place. All
employes are uniformed and extremely deferential to recognized ability. Practically, for half a day, I owned the place.

A cattle friend of mine who was looking for a dynasty, whose tail he could twist while in Europe, and who used often to
say over our glass of vin ordinaire (which I have since learned is not the best brand at all), that nothing would tickle him
more than "to have a little deal with a crowned head and get him in the door," accidentally broke a blue crock out there
at Sèvres which wouldn't hold over a gallon, and it took the best part of a carload of cows to pay for it, he told me.

The process of making the Sèvres ware is not yet published in book form, especially the method of coloring and
enameling. It is a secret possessed by duly authorized artists. The name of the town is pronounced Save.

Mme. Pompadour is said to have been the natural daughter of a butcher, which I regard as being more to her own
credit than though she had been an artificial one. Her name was Jeanne Antoinette Poisson Le Normand d'Etioles,
Marchioness de Pompadour, and her name is yet used by the authorities of Versailles as a fire escape, so I am told.

She was the mistress of Louis XV, who never allowed her to put her hands in dishwater during the entire time she
visited at his house. D'Etioles was her first husband, but she left him for a gay but rather reprehensible life at court,
where she was terribly talked about, though she is said not to have cared a cent.

She developed into a marvelous politician, and early seeing that the French people were largely governed by the literary
lights of that time, she began to cultivate the acquaintance of the magazine writers, and tried to join the Authors' Club.

[Pg 988]

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She then became prominent by originating a method of doing up the hair, which has since grown popular among people
whose hair has not, like my own, been already "done up."

This style of Mme. Pompadour's was at once popular with the young men who ran the throttles of the soda fountains of
that time, and is still well spoken of. A young friend of mine trained his hair up from his forehead in that way once and
could not get it down again. During his funeral his hair, which had been glued down by the undertaker, became
surprised at something said by the clergyman and pushed out the end of his casket.

The king tired in a few years of Mme. Pompadour and wished that he had not encouraged her to run away from her
husband. She, however, retained her hold upon the blasé and alcoholic monarch by her wonderful versatility and genius.

When all her talents as an artiste and politician palled upon his old rum-soaked and emaciated brain, and ennui, like a
mighty canker, ate away large corners of his moth-eaten soul, she would sit in the gloaming and sing to him, "Hard
Times, Hard Times, Come Again No More," meantime accompanying herself on the harpsichord or the sackbut or
whatever they played in those days. Then she instituted theatricals, giving, through the aid of the nobility, a very good
version of "Peck's Bad Boy" and "Lend Me Five Centimes."

She finally lost her influence over Looey the XV, and as he got to be an old man the thought suddenly occurred to him
to reform, and so he had Mme. Pompadour beheaded at the age of forty-two years. This little story should teach us that
no matter how gifted we are, or how high we may wear our hair, our ambitions must be tempered by honor and
integrity; also that pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a plunk.

CHAD'S STORY OF THE GOOSE

BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH

I nodded my head, and Chad closed the door softly, taking with him a small cup and saucer, and returning in a few
minutes followed by that most delicious of all aromas, the savory steam of boiling coffee.

"My Marsa John," he continued, filling the cup with the smoking beverage, "never drank nuffin' but tea, eben at de big
dinners when all de gemmen had coffee in de little cups—dat's one ob 'em you's drinkin' out ob now; dey ain't mo' dan
fo' on 'em left. Old marsa would have his pot ob tea: Henny use' ter make it for him; makes it now for Miss Nancy.

"Henny was a young gal den, long 'fo' we was married. Henny b'longed to Colonel Lloyd Barbour, on de next
plantation to ourn.

"Mo' coffee, Major?" I handed Chad the empty cup. He refilled it, and went straight on without drawing breath.

"Wust scrape I eber got into wid old Marsa John was ober Henny. I tell ye she was a harricane in dem days. She come
into de kitchen one time where I was helpin' git de dinner ready, an' de cook had gone to de spring house, an' she says:

"'Chad, what ye cookin' dat smells so nice?'

"'Dat's a goose,' I says, 'cookin' for Marsa John's dinner. We got quality,' says I, pointin' to de dinin'-room do'.

"'Quality!' she says. 'Spec' I know what de quality is. Dat's for you an' de cook.'

"Wid dat she grabs a caarvin' knife from de table, opens de do' ob de big oven, cuts off a leg ob de goose, an' dis'pears
round de kitchen corner wid de leg in her mouf.

"'Fo' I knowed whar I was Marsa John come to de kitchen do' an' says, 'Gittin' late, Chad; bring in de dinner.' You see,
Major, dey ain't no up an' down stairs in de big house, like it is yer; kitchen an' dinin'-room all on de same flo'.

"Well, sah, I was scared to def, but I tuk dat goose an' laid him wid de cut side down on de bottom of de pan 'fo' de
cook got back, put some dressin' an' stuffin' ober him, an' shet de stove do'. Den I tuk de sweet potatoes an' de hominy
an' put 'em on de table, an' den I went back in de kitchen to git de baked ham. I put on de ham an' some mo' dishes,
an' marsa says, lookin' up:

"'I t'ought dere was a roast goose, Chad.'

"'I ain't yerd nothin' 'bout no goose,' I says, 'I'll ask de cook.'

"Next minute I yerd old marsa a-hollerin':

"'Mammy Jane, ain't we got a goose?'

"'Lord-a-massy! yes, marsa. Chad, you wu'thless nigger, ain't you tuk dat goose out yit?'

"'Is we got a goose?' said I.

"'Is we got a goose? Didn't you help pick it?'

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[Pg 994]

"I see whar my hair was short, an' I snatched up a hot dish from de hearth, opened de oven do', an' slide de goose in
jes as he was, an' lay him down befo' Marsa John.

"'Now see what de ladies'll have for dinner,' says old marsa, pickin' up his caarvin' knife.

"'What'll you take for dinner, miss?' says I. 'Baked ham?'

"'No,' she says, lookin' up to whar Marsa John sat; 'I think I'll take a leg ob dat goose'—jes so.

"Well, marsa, cut off de leg an' put a little stuffin' an' gravy on wid a spoon, an' says to me, 'Chad, see what dat
gemman'll have.'

"'What'll you take for dinner, sah?' says I. 'Nice breast o' goose, or slice o' ham?'

"'No; I think I'll take a leg of dat goose,' he says.

"I didn't say nuffin', but I knowed bery well he wa'n't a-gwine to git it.

"But, Major, you oughter seen ole marsa lookin' for der udder leg ob dat goose! He rolled him ober on de dish, dis way
an' dat way, an' den he jabbed dat ole bone-handled caarvin' fork in him an' hel' him up ober de dish an' looked under
him an' on top ob him, an' den he says, kinder sad like:

"'Chad, whar is de udder leg ob dat goose?'

"'It didn't hab none,' says I.

"'You mean ter say, Chad, dat de gooses on my plantation on'y got one leg?'

"'Some ob 'em has an' some ob 'em ain't. You see, marsa, we got two kinds in de pond, an' we was a little boddered
to-day, so Mammy Jane cooked dis one 'cause I cotched it fust.'

"'Well,' said he, lookin' like he look when he send for you in de little room, 'I'll settle wid ye after dinner.'

"Well, dar I was shiverin' an' shakin' in my shoes, an' droppin' gravy an' spillin' de wine on de table-cloth, I was dat
shuck up; an' when de dinner was ober he calls all de ladies an' gemmen, an' says, 'Now come down to de duck pond.
I'm gwineter show dis nigger dat all de gooses on my plantation got mo' den one leg.'

"I followed 'long, trapesin' after de whole kit an' b'ilin', an' when we got to de pond"—here Chad nearly went into a
convulsion with suppressed laughter—"dar was de gooses sittin' on a log in de middle of dat ole green goose-pond wid
one leg stuck down so, an' de udder tucked under de wing."

Chad was now on one leg, balancing himself by my chair, the tears running down his cheek.

"'Dar, marsa,' says I, 'don't ye see? Look at dat ole gray goose! Dat's de berry match ob de one we had to-day.'

"Den de ladies all hollered, an' de gemmen laughed so loud dey yerd 'em at de big house.

"'Stop, you black scoun'rel!' Marsa John says, his face gittin' white an' he a-jerkin' his handkerchief from his pocket.
'Shoo!'

"Major, I hope to have my brains kicked out by a lame grasshopper if ebery one ob dem gooses didn't put down de
udder leg!

"'Now, you lyin' nigger,' he says, raisin' his cane ober my head, 'I'll show you'—

"'Stop, Marsa John!' I hollered; ''t ain't fair, 't ain't fair.'

"'Why ain't it fair?' says he.

"''Cause,' says I, 'you didn't say "Shoo!" to de goose what was on de table'."

Chad laughed until he choked.

"And did he thrash you?"

"Marsa John? No, sah. He laughed loud as anybody; an' den dat night he says to me as I was puttin' some wood on de
fire:

"'Chad, where did dat leg go?' An' so I ups an' tells him all about Henny, an' how I was lyin' 'case I was 'feared de gal
would git hurt, an' how she was on'y a-foolin', thinkin' it was my goose; an' den de ole marsa look in de fire for a long
time, an' den he says:

"'Dat's Colonel Barbour's Henny, ain't it, Chad?'

"'Yes, marsa,' says I.

"Well, de next mawnin' he had his black horse saddled, an' I held the stirrup for him to git on, an' he rode ober to de

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[Pg 997]

Barbour plantation, an' didn't come back till plumb black night. When he come up I held de lantern so I could see his
face, for I wa'n't easy in my mine all day. But it was all bright an' shinin' same as a' angel's.

"'Chad,' he says, handin' me de reins, 'I bought yo' Henny dis arternoon from Colonel Barbour, an' she's comin' ober
to-morrow, an' you can bofe git married next Sunday.'"

UNCONSCIOUS HUMOR

BY J.K. WETHERILL

Perhaps unconscious humor does not appeal to the more amiable side of our sense of mirth, for it excites in us a
conceited feeling of superiority over those who are making us laugh,—but its unexpectedness and infinite variety render
it irresistible to a certain class of minds. The duly labeled "joke" follows a certain law and rule; whereas no jester could
invent the grotesqueries of the unconscious humorist.

As a humble gleaner after the editorial scythe,—or, to be truly modern, I should say mowing-machine,—I have
gathered some strange sheaves of this sort of humor. Like many provincial newspapers, that to which I am attached
makes a feature of printing the social happenings in villages of the surrounding country, and these out-of-town
correspondents "don't do a thing to" the English language. One of them invariably refers to the social lights of his vicinity
as "our prominent socialists," and describes some individual as "happening to an accident." To another, every festal
occasion is "a bower of beauty and a scene of fairyland." Blue-penciling they resent, and one of them wrote to complain
that a descriptive effort of his had been "much altered and deranged." The paper also publishes portraits of children and
young women, and it is in the descriptions accompanying these pictures that the rural correspondent excels himself. One
wound up his eulogy in an apparently irrepressible burst of enthusiasm: "She is indeed a tout ensemble." A child of six
months was described as "studious"; and another correspondent went into details thus: "Little Willie has only one large
blue eye, the other having been punched out by his brother with a stick, by accident." A small child was accredited with
"a pleasing disposition and a keen juvenile conception."

The following are some of the descriptive phrases applied to village belles: "She is perfectly at home on the piano,
where her executions have attained international celebrity." ... "She possesses a mine of repartee and the qualities which
have long rendered illustive her noble family." ... "Her carriage and disposition are swan-like." ... "Her eyes can express
pathetic pathos, but flash forth fiery independence when her country's name is traduced." ... "She has a molded arm,
and her Juno-like form glides with a rhythmic move in the soft swell of a Strauss." ... "Her chestnut hair gives a rich
recess to her lovely, fawnlike eyes, which shine like a star set in the crown of an angel." ... One writer becomes
absolutely incoherent in his admiration, and lavishes a mixture of metaphors upon his subject: "She portrays a picture
worthy of a Raphael. She dances like the fairies before the heavenly spirits. She looks like a celestial goddess from an
outburst of morning-glories; her lovely form would assume a phantomlike flash as she glides the floor, as though she
were a mystic dream."

Scarcely less rich in unconscious humor are some of the effusions of those who have literary aspirations. A descriptive
article contains a reference to "a lonely house that stood in silent mutiny." "Indians who border on civilization, an
interesting people in their superstitious way," infested the vicinity, and one of the points of interest was the Wild Man's
Leap, "so called from an Indian who is said to have leaped across to get away from some men who were trying to
expatriate him." An aspirant made this generous offer: "I will write you an article every week if you so wish it, as I have
nothing to do after supper." Modest was the request of another, concerning remuneration: "I do not ask for money, but
would like you to send me a small monkey. I already have a parrot."

But no finer specimen of unconscious humor has ever fallen under the sub-editorial eye than "The Beautiful Circus Girl."
In these enterprising days rising young authors sometimes boast in print of their ignorance of grammar and spelling, but
the author of the aforementioned bit of fiction surpasses them all in that respect. It seems only just that such a unique
gem should be rescued from the dull obscurity of the waste-basket.

THE BEAUTIFUL CIRCUS GIRL

Some years ago the quaint but slow little village of Mariana was all on the qui-of-eve with excitement. Pasted on every
tree and sign was announcements of Hall's circus, and the aperence of pretty Rose Floid in the pearless feets of tight-
rope dancing, and Seignor Paul Paulo as her attendent. All the vilage was agog, for in their midst had old Hall and his
Wife whome he always (spoke of as the Misus) taken a small but quaint cotage, so as to make quiet and please Rose
whose guardien he was.

In the distanse was seen an advancing teem, and mounted on its box driving was W. Alexander, distinguished as to
aperence, tallent, and that charm, money. He was of the most patricien aristocrats of the place. Placed on the summit of
one of those hils that spring up in the most unexpected ways and degrees was the quaint old Tudor mansion of the
Alexanders called Waterloo, in rememberence of the home of his ancestors which now rests on the banks of the
Potomack; a legend as to war and romance. Though bearing with him all the honners that Cambridg could confere, W.

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[Pg 999]

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[Pg 1001]

Alexander was a faverite in the vilage, being ever ready with a kind enquiry as to Parent, or peny for marbles, not
forgetting his boyhoods days. Though the beau par excelant of the vilage, and posessing vast landed estate and a kind
retinu, he was not haughty.

Every one was eger to see Rose perform. She in her pasage too and frow had won by her sweet manners (many
likings) ere she exhibited her skill.

The eventful hour of promis came and what a crowd was there. Rose came fourth, asisted by Paul Paulo. His form was
molded even as an Apolo, and his eger eye was fixed on the bony girl. She ballanced her pole, saught her equiliberum,
and every heart was at her desposal, not accepting W. Alexander. Seeing this, the dark pashonate eye of the Italian
scowled.

So droped the curtain of the first performance. And W. Alexander stroled on towards his home, heart and head full of
the beautiful circus girl, thoughts were very conflicting, love at first sight.

(We will skip, for want of space, the exquisite passages descriptive of the mutual love of Rose and W. Alexander, and
pass on to the finale.)

There was a paus, a sencation, and Rose came fourth to meander in mid-air. Admeration was at its hight, as she
swayed too and frow as it were a winged egle from some etherial climb.

Low! a paus—the rope snaps—and Rose falls to erth a helpless mass of youth and beauty. The venerable man of
medicin closed her star-lit eyes now forever dimed to this world. And all knew she had walked the last rope that bound
her to this erth.

What, who, was her murderer?

The rope seemed to be cut with some jaged instrument so that when her tiny feat pressed its coils it became her
destroyer.

Suspician pointed at the Italian.

W. Alexander's old Father of sympathy now the strongest, entreted our Hero to sale for distent shores, there asisted by
that balm time and change, there assuage his grefe.

Well, came the last evening, and with the sadest of hearts and a bunch of sweet violets W. Alexander went to bid a long
fare well.

But as he neared the sacred spot his heart seemed deadened. Prone on her grave changing the snowy whiteness of the
flowers with its crimson die was the body of Paul Paulo. Who by his own hand caused his life blood to floe as an
attonement.

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Up and down old Brandywine,

In the days 'at's past and gone—

With a dad-burn hook-and-line

And a saplin'-pole—i swawn!

I've had more fun, to the square
Inch, than ever anywhere!
Heaven to come can't discount mine
Up and down old Brandywine!

Haint no sense in wishin'—yit

Wisht to goodness I could jes

"Gee" the blame world round and git

Back to that old happiness!—

Kindo' drive back in the shade

"The old Covered Bridge" there laid

Crosst the crick, and sorto' soak
My soul over, hub and spoke!

Honest, now!—it haint no dream

'At I'm wantin',—but the fac's

As they wuz; the same old stream,

And the same old times, i jacks!—

[Pg 1002]

[Pg 1003]

Gim me back my bare feet—and
Stonebruise too!—And scratched and tanned!
And let hottest dog-days shine
Up and down old Brandywine!

In and on betwixt the trees

'Long the banks, pour down yer noon,

Kindo' curdled with the breeze

And the yallerhammer's tune;

And the smokin', chokin' dust
O' the turnpike at its wusst—
Saturd'ys, say, when it seems
Road's jes jammed with country teams!—

Whilse the old town, fur away

'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land,

Dozed-like in the heat o' day

Peaceful' as a hired hand.

Jolt the gravel th'ough the floor
O' the old bridge!—grind and roar
With yer blame percession-line—
Up and down old Brandywine!

Souse me and my new straw-hat

Off the foot-log!—what I care?—

Fist shoved in the crown o' that—

Like the old Clown ust to wear.

Wouldn't swop it fer a' old
Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold!—
Keep yer King ef you'll gim me
Jes the boy I ust to be!

Spill my fishin'-worms! er steal

My best "goggle-eye!"—but you

Can't lay hands on joys I feel

Nibblin' like they ust to do!

So, in memory, to-day
Same old ripple lips away
At my cork and saggin' line,
Up and down old Brandywine!

There the logs is, round the hill,

Where "Old Irvin" ust to lift

Out sunfish from daylight till

Dew-fall—'fore he'd leave "The Drift"

And give us a chance—and then
Kindo' fish back home again,
Ketchin' 'em jes left and right
Where we hadn't got "a bite!"

Er, 'way windin' out and in,—

Old path th'ough the iurnweeds

And dog-fennel to yer chin—

Then come suddent, th'ough the reeds

And cat-tails, smack into where
Them-air woods-hogs ust to scare
Us clean 'crosst the County-line,
Up and down old Brandywine!

But the dim roar o' the dam

It 'ud coax us furder still

Tords the old race, slow and ca'm,

Slidin' on to Huston's mill—

Where, I 'spect, "The Freeport crowd"
Never warmed to us er 'lowed
We wuz quite so overly

[Pg 1004]

[Pg 1005]

Welcome as we aimed to be.

Still it peared-like ever'thing—

Fur away from home as there—

Had more relish-like, i jing!—

Fish in stream, er bird in air!

O them rich old bottom-lands,
Past where Cowden's Schoolhouse stands!
Wortermelons—master-mine!
Up and down old Brandywine!

And sich pop-paws!—Lumps o' raw

Gold and green,—jes oozy th'ough

With ripe yaller—like you've saw

Custard-pie with no crust to:

And jes gorges o' wild plums,
Till a feller'd suck his thumbs
Clean up to his elbows! My!—
Me some more er lem me die!

Up and down old Brandywine!...

Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!—

Flick me with a pizenvine

And yell "Yip!" and lem me loose!

—Old now as I then wuz young,
'F I could sing as I have sung,
Song 'ud surely ring dee-vine
Up and down old Brandywine!

JONES

BY LLOYD OSBOURNE

I

I could have taken "No" like a man, and would have gone away decently and never bothered her again. I told her so
straight out in the first angry flush of my rejection—but this string business, with everything left hanging in the air, so to
speak, made a fellow feel like thirty cents.

"It simply means that I'm engaged and you are not," I said.

"It's nothing of the kind," she returned tearfully. "You're as free as free, Ezra. You can go away this moment, and never
write or anything!"

Her lips trembled as she said this, and I confess it gave me a kind of savage pleasure to feel that it was still in my power
to hurt her.

It may sound unkind, but still you must admit that the whole situation was exasperating. Here was five-foot-five of
exquisite, blooming, twenty-year-old American girlhood sending away the man she confessed to care for, because,
forsooth, she would not marry before her elder sister! I always thought it was beautiful of Freddy (she was named
Frederica, you know) to be always so sweet and tender and grateful about Eleanor; but sometimes gratitude can be
carried altogether too far, even if you are an orphan, and were brought up by hand. Eleanor was thirty-four if a day—a
nice enough woman, of course, and college bred, and cultivated, and clever—but her long suit wasn't good looks. She
was tall and bony; worshipped genius and all that; and played the violin.

"No," repeated Freddy, "I shall never, never marry before Eleanor. It would mortify her—I know it would—and make
her feel that she herself had failed. She's awfully frank about those things, Ezra—surprisingly frank. I don't see why
being an old maid is always supposed to be so funny, do you? It's touching and tragic in a woman who'd like to marry
and who isn't asked!"

"But Eleanor must have had heaps of offers," I said, "surely—"

"Just one."

"Well, one's something," I remarked cheerfully. "Why didn't she take him then?"

[Pg 1006]

[Pg 1007]

[Pg 1008]

"She told me only last night that she was sorry she hadn't!"

Here, at any rate, was something to chew on. I saw a gleam of hope. Why shouldn't Eleanor marry the only one—and
make us all happy!

"That was three years ago," said Freddy.

"I have loved you for four," I retorted. I was cross with disappointment. To be dashed to the ground, you know, just as
I was beginning—"Tell me some more about him," I went on. I'm a plain business man and hang on to an idea like a
bulldog; once I get my teeth in they stay in, for all you may drag at me and wallop me with an umbrella—metaphorically
speaking, of course.

"Tell me his name, where he lives, and all."

"We were coming back from Colorado, and there was some mistake about our tickets. They sold our Pullman
drawing-room twice over—to Doctor Jones and his mother, and also to ourselves. You never saw such a fight—and
that led to our making friends, and his proposing to Eleanor!"

"Then why in Heaven's name didn't she" (it was on the tip of my tongue to say "jump at him") "take him?"

"She said she couldn't marry a man who was her intellectual inferior."

"And was he?"

"Oh, he was a perfect idiot—but nice, and all that, and tremendously in love with her. Pity, wasn't it?"

"The obvious thing to do is to chase him up instantly. Where did you say he lived?"

"His mother told me he was going to New York to practice medicine."

"But didn't you ever hear from him again? I mean, was that the end of it all?"

"Yes."

"Then you don't even know if he has married since?"

"No!"

"Nor died?"

"No."

"Nor anything at all?"

"No."

"What was his first name?"

"Wait a moment ... let me think ... yes, it was Harry."

"Just Harry Jones, then, New York City?"

Freddy laughed forlornly.

"But he must have had antecedents," I cried out. "There are two ways of doing this Sherlock Holmes business—
backward and forward, you know. Let's take Doctor Jones backward. As they say in post-office forms?—what was
his place of origin?"

"New York City."

"He begins there and ends there, does he, then?"

"Yes."

"But how sure are you that Eleanor would marry him if I did manage to find him and bring him back?"

"I'm not sure at all."

"No, but Freddy, listen—it's important. You told me yourself that she—I want the very identical words she used."

Freddy reflected.

"She said she was almost sorry she hadn't accepted that silly doctor!"

"That doesn't seem much, does it?" I remarked gloomily.

"Oh, from Eleanor it does, Ezra. She said it quite seriously. She always hides her feelings under a veil of sarcastic
humor, you know."

[Pg 1009]

[Pg 1010]

"You're certainly a very difficult family to marry," I said.

"Being an orphan—" she began.

"Well, I'm going to find that Jones if I—!"

"Ezra, dear boy, you're crazy. How could you think for a moment that—"

"I'm off, little girl. Good-by!"

"Wait a second, Ezra!"

She rose and went into the next room, reappearing with something in her hand. She was crying and smiling both at
once. I took the little case she gave me—it was like one of those things that pen-knives are put in—and looked at her
for an explanation.

"It's the h-h-hindleg of a j-j-jack-rabbit," she said, "shot by a g-g-grave at the f-f-full of the moon. It's supposed to be l-
l-lucky. It was given to me by a naval officer who got drowned. It's the only way I can h-h-help you!"

And thus equipped I started bravely for New York.

II

In the directory I found eleven pages of Joneses; three hundred and eighty-four Henry Joneses; and (excluding
seventeen dentists) eighty-seven Doctor Henry Joneses. I asked one of the typists in the office to copy out the list, and
prepared to wade in. We were on the eve of a labor war, and it was exceedingly difficult for me to get away. As the
managing partner of Hodge & Westoby, boxers (not punching boxers, nor China boxers, but just plain American box-
making boxers), I had to bear the brunt of the whole affair, and had about as much spare time as you could heap on a
ten-cent piece. I had to be firm, conciliatory, defiant and tactful all at once, and every hour I took off for Jonesing
threatened to blow the business sky-high. It was a tight place and no mistake, and it was simply jack-rabbit hindleg luck
that pulled me through!

My first Jones was a hoary old rascal above a drug store. He was a hard man to get away from, and made such a fuss
about my wasting his time with idle questions that I flung him a dollar and departed. He followed me down to my cab
and insisted on sticking in a giant bottle of his Dog-Root Tonic. I dropped it overboard a few blocks farther on, and
thought that was the end of it till the whole street began to yell at me, and a policeman grabbed my horse, while a street
arab darted up breathless with the Dog-Root Tonic. I presented it to him, together with a quarter, the policeman darkly
regarding me as an incipient madman.

The second Jones was a man of about thirty, a nice, gentlemanly fellow, in a fine office. I have usually been an off-hand
man in business, accustomed to quick decisions and very little beating about the bush. But I confess I was rather
nonplussed with the second Jones. How the devil was I to begin? His waiting-room was full of people, and I hardly felt
entitled to sit down and gas about one thing and the other till the chance offered of leading up to the Van Coorts. So I
said I had some queer, shooting sensations in the chest. In five minutes he had me half-stripped and was pounding my
midriff in. And the questions that man asked! He began with my grandparents, roamed through my childhood and youth,
dissected my early manhood, and finally came down to coffee and what I ate for breakfast.

Then it was my turn.

I asked him, as a starter, whether he had ever been in Colorado?

No, he hadn't.

After forty-five minutes of being hammered, and stethoscoped, and punched, and holding my breath till I was purple,
and hopping on one leg, he said I was a very obscure case of something with nine syllables!

"At least, I won't be positive with one examination," he said; "but kindly come to-morrow at nine, when I shall be more
at leisure to go into the matter thoroughly."

I paid him ten dollars and went sorrowfully away.

The third Jones was too old to be my man; so was the fourth; the fifth had gone away the month before, leaving no
address; the sixth, however, was younger and more promising. I thought this time I'd choose something easier than
pains in the chest. I changed them to my left hand. I was going to keep my clothes on, anyhow. But it wasn't any use.
Off they came. After a decent interval of thumping and grandfathers, and what I had for breakfast, I managed to get in
my question:

"Ever in Colorado, Doctor?"

"Oh, dear me, no!"

Another ten dollars, and nothing accomplished!

[Pg 1011]

[Pg 1012]

[Pg 1013]

The seventh Jones was again too old; the eighth was a pale hobbledehoy; the ninth was a loathsome quack; the tenth
had died that morning; the eleventh was busy; the twelfth was a veterinary surgeon; the thirteenth was an intern living at
home with his widowed sister. Colorado? No, the widowed sister was positive he had never been there. The fourteenth
was a handsome fellow of about thirty-five. He looked poor and threadbare, and I had a glimpse of a shabby bed
behind a screen. Patients obviously did not often come his way, and his joy at seeing me was pitiful. I had meant to try a
bluff and get in my Colorado question this time free of charge; but I hadn't the heart to do it. Slight pains in the head
seemed a safe complaint.

After a few questions he said he would have to make a thorough physical examination.

"No clothes off!" I protested.

"It's essential," he said, and went on with something about the radio-activity of the brain, and the vasomotor centers.
The word motor made me feel like a sick automobile. I begged to keep my clothes on; I insisted; I promised to come
to-morrow; but it wasn't any good, and in a few minutes he was hitting me harder than either of the two before. Maybe
I was more tender! He electrocuted me extra from a switchboard, ran red-hot needles into my legs, and finally, after
banging me around the room, said I was the strongest and wellest man who had ever entered his office.

"There's a lot of make-believe in medicine," he said; "but I'm one of those poor devils who can't help telling a patient the
truth. There's nothing whatever the matter with you, Mr. Westoby, except that your skin has a slightly abrased look,
and I seem to notice an abnormal sensitiveness to touch."

"Were you ever in Colorado, Doctor?" I asked while he was good enough to help me into my shirt.

"Oh, yes, I know Colorado well!"

My heart beat high.

"Some friends of mine were out there three years ago," I said. "Wouldn't it be strange if by any chance the Van Coorts
—"

"Oh, I left Denver when I was fifteen."

Five dollars!

The fifteenth Jones was a doctor of divinity; the sixteenth was a tapeworm specialist; the seventeenth was too old, the
eighteenth was too old, the nineteenth was too old—a trio of disappointing patriarchs. The twentieth painted out black
eyes; the twenty-first was a Russian who could scarcely speak any English. He said he had changed his name from
Karaforvochristophervitch to something more suited to American pronunciation. He seemed to think that Jones gave
him a better chance. I sincerely hope it did. He told me that all the rest of the Jones family was in Siberia, but that he
was going to bomb them out! The twenty-second was a negro. The twenty-third—! He was a tall, youngish man,
narrow-shouldered, rather commonplace-looking, with beautiful blue eyes, and a timid, winning, deprecatory manner. I
told him I was suffering from insomnia. After raking over my grandfathers again and bringing the family history down by
stages to the very moment I was shown into his office he said he should have to ask me to undergo a thorough physical
—! But I was tired of being slapped and punched and breathed on and prodded, and was bold enough to refuse point-
blank. I'd rather have the insomnia! We worked up quite a fuss about it, for there was something tenacious in the fellow,
for all his mild, kind, gentle ways; and I had all I could do to get off by pleading press of business. But I wasn't to
escape scot-free. Medical science had to get even somehow. He compromised by stinging my eye out with belladonna.
Have you ever had belladonna squirted in your eye? Well, don't.

He was sitting at the table, writing out some cabalistic wiggles that stood for bromide of potassium, when I remarked
casually that it was strange how well I could always sleep in Colorado.

He laid down the pen with a sigh.

"A wonderful state—Colorado," I observed.

"To me it's the land of memories," he said. "Sad, beautiful, irrevocable memories—try tea for breakfast—do you read
Browning? Then you will remember that line: 'Oh, if I—' And I insist on your giving up that cocktail before dinner."

"Some very dear friends of mine were once in Colorado," I said. "Morristown people—the Van Coorts."

"The Van Coorts!"

Doctor Jones sprang from his chair, his thin, handsome face flushing with excitement.

"Do you mean to say that you know Eleanor Van Coort?" he gasped.

"All my life."

He dropped back into the chair again and mumbled something about cigars. I was only to have blank a day. In his
perturbation I believe he limited me to a daily box. He was trying—and trying very badly—to conceal the emotions I
had conjured up.

[Pg 1014]

[Pg 1015]

"They were talking about you only yesterday," I went on. "That is, if it was you! A Pullman drawing-room—"

"And a mistake about the tickets," he broke out. "Yes, yes, it's they all right. Talking about me, did you say? Did
Eleanor—I mean, did Miss Van Coort—express—?"

"She was wondering how she could find you," I said. "You see, they're busy getting up a house-party and she was
running over her men. 'If I only knew where that dear Doctor Jones was,' she said, and then asked me, if by any
possible chance—"

His fine blue eyes were glistening with all sorts of tender thoughts. It was really touching. And I was in love myself, you
know.

"So she has remained unmarried!" he exclaimed softly. "Unmarried—after all these years!"

"She's a very popular girl," I said. "She's had dozens of men at her feet—but an unfortunate attachment, something that
seems to go back to about three years ago, has apparently determined her to stay out of the game!"

Doctor Jones dropped his head on his hands and murmured something that sounded like "Eleanor, Eleanor!" Then he
looked up with one of the most radiant smiles I ever saw on a man's face. "I hope I'm not presuming on a very short
acquaintance," he said, "but the fact is—why should I not tell you?—Miss Van Coort was the woman in my life!"

I explained to him that Freddy was the woman in mine.

Then you ought to have seen us fraternize!

In twenty minutes I had him almost convinced that Eleanor had loved him all these years. But he worried a lot about a
Mr. Wise who had been on the same train, and a certain Colonel Hadow who had also paid Eleanor attention. Jones
was a great fellow for wanting to be sure. I pooh-poohed them out of the way and gave him the open track. Then,
indeed, the clouds rolled away. He beamed with joy. In his rich gush of friendship he recurred to the subject of my
insomnia with a new-born enthusiasm. He subdivided all my symptoms. He dived again into my physical being. He
consulted German authorities. I squirmed and lied and resisted all I could, but he said he owed me an eternal debt that
could only be liquidated by an absolute cure. He wanted to tie me up and shoot me with an X-ray. He ordered me to
wear white socks. He had a long, terrifying look at a drop of my blood. He jerked hairs out of my head to sample my
nerve force. He said I was a baffling subject, but that he meant to make me well if it took the last shot in the scientific
locker. And he wound up at last by refusing point-blank to be paid a cent!

I waltzed away on air to write an account of the whole affair to Freddy, and dictate a plan of operations. I was justified
in feeling proud of myself. Most men would have tamely submitted to their fate instead of chasing up all the Joneses of
Jonesville! Freddy sent me an early answer—a gay, happy, overflowing little note—telling me to try and engage Doctor
Jones for a three-day house-party at Morristown. I was to telegraph when he could come, and was promised an official
invitation from Mrs. Matthewman. (She was the aunt, you know, that they lived with—one of those old porcelain ladies
with a lace cap and a rent-roll.) However, I could not do anything for two days, for we had reached a crisis in the labor
troubles, and matters were approaching the breaking point. We were threatened...